


The Stories We Tell

by KHansen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Buff Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NSFW, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pre-Slash, Thirsty Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25459333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: My collection of ficlets from prompts I answer on tumblr. Each chapter will say whether it features established relationship or not. Make a prompt request at@buffskierights!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 127





	1. Art Thou Nasty? [Not Established]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [@jaskicr](%E2%80%9Cjaskicr.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)  
>  _OK KIM SO BUFFSKIER PROMPT. first time geralt sees jaskier’s thighs (all my asks have been about his chest and arms which is great but THIGHS) medieval booty shorts for a party or something? idk but as long as geralt sees them thighs and goes WOW HE NEVER SKIPS LEG DAY and dies a bit. someone give him a drink of water pls_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not the first person to think of Jaskier and these shorts together. Nor will I be the last. Also I doubt they’re historically accurate but whatever

He can’t believe he’s allowed Jaskier to drag him to another party. How does this keep happening? Granted, he never _wants_ to deny his bard anything but he has to show some sort of self respect, which Jaskier certainly knows how to circumvent as the bard always springs requests for things Geralt definitely doesn’t want to do after hunts when he’s tired and less likely to say no. Which is how he’s found himself leaning against the wall at the edge of the sitting room that this party is being held in.

Oddly enough, it isn’t a gala or a ball like Jaskier usually attends with him in tow. This is a rather small function, maybe fifty people in all, and everyone actually looks happy to be here. There’s an unusual mix of nobility and commoners, everyone cleaned up and in their finest clothing. Be that regalia for the soldiers, ball gowns for the ladies in waiting, or wedding attire for the businessfolk of the town nearby. Geralt himself has been dressed up in a fine black doublet and trousers, both accented nicely with midnight blue thread so that it’s only visible up close and in certain lighting. He has to, begrudgingly, admit that Jaskier has gotten very good at finding appropriate clothing for him when they attend functions more in line with the bard’s career.

Speaking of, he hasn’t spotted Jaskier for some time now. The last he can recall seeing his friend, Jaskier had been talking animatedly with the town’s blacksmith and the Lady of this manor. Now, as he looks around the spacious room and at the plush couches with people lounging upon them as they laugh and talk uproariously, he doesn’t spy either Jaskier or the Lady, and his mood sours so much that the ale he had been nursing becomes bitter on his tongue.

They’re going to get kicked out because Jaskier just can’t keep his dick in his pants, again. Geralt can respect the desire and… proficiency Jaskier has for sex, the walls of inns aren’t as thick as one might think and Witcher hearing can be a curse as much as it is a boon, but you’d think that his friend would have learned his lesson after thirty four years of graceful aging and countless midnight chases from bed chambers. It might be best if he finds his bard, before Jaskier can get into too much trouble, so he starts to look for the blacksmith to ask where the odd couple might have disappeared to.

To his luck, Geralt catches sight of the blacksmith returning to the sitting room a few minutes later, walking a bit gingerly as though he’s sore from riding a horse, and makes his way over. The man has sandy blond hair that reaches his shoulders and is tied back into a messy tail, the strands tangled in a way they weren’t when Geralt saw him earlier. He’s broad shouldered and nearly of a height with the Witcher himself, and his cheeks are flushed while his lips are reddened and swollen. The blacksmith’s clothing is mussed and hastily pulled back into place and Geralt internally sighs, Jaskier shouldn’t have pulled someone else into his debauchery. Especially not someone who pays taxes to the Lord to whom this Lady is wed.

“Excuse me,” Geralt clears his throat. He’s become much more polite in mixed company than he used to be and it almost irritates him, “Have you seen Jaskier?”

The blacksmith looks up and turns a darker shade of scarlet, his hazel eyes so light they could almost be called gold, “O-oh! Um, Master Jaskier is with the Lady currently. They’re ah, down the hall, Master Witcher, third door on the left.”

Geralt nods and inhales deeply to sigh, the scents of iron and coal wafting off of the smith along with the smell of sex and Jaskier’s mellow chamomile perfume. But, oddly enough, not the thick jasmine that the Lady is wearing. She must have quickly bathed before laying with his bard and the smith. “Thank you,” he turns and leaves the room before he can learn more about the man than he wants to.

The hall is quiet once the heavy door to the sitting room has shut behind him and his footsteps are muffled by the maroon carpet runner. It’s an ugly color, Jaskier pointed it out to him when they arrived and Geralt found himself inclined to agree. Who puts maroon on the floor? He finds himself grinding his heels into the carpet a little bit with each step to try and mar the hideous shade with any dirt stuck to his boots as he walks along it until he hears low voices coming from behind the third door on the left.

One of them is high and almost nasally, the voice of the Lady if he isn’t mistaken, and the other a round tenor. Undoubtedly Jaskier. They don’t sound breathless and he doesn’t hear the general accompaniments of sex, nor does he smell the heady scent of sex coming from the room. He frowns in confusion and decides to just open the door, stepping into a large clothing chamber.

Costumes hang from racks along the walls and boots of all shapes and size line the floor. Mirrors span floor to ceiling on the far wall and Geralt sees his own face in the reflection morph into one of shock. The Lady is sitting upon a couch, still dressed in her finery and smelling of her strong jasmine perfume, while Jaskier is stood upon a low pedestal with his back to the door.

He has on a pair of black, form-fitting, over the knee boots that have a heel giving him an additional inch or two of height and elongating his legs. At the top of the boots, Geralt’s eyes are drawn to the milky expanse of pale skin that’s lightly covered with dark hair before disappearing into costume trousers that are barely long enough to cover the bard’s ass. _Art Thou Nasty_ is embroidered on the rear and Geralt swallows thickly as he drags his eyes up to meet Jaskier’s in the mirror.

Jaskier’s cheeks are bright red but he makes no move to cover himself, just clearing his throat delicately as he turns around to face the Witcher. Geralt glances down again to catch the bard’s side profile and feels faint from the thick, sinewy muscle he can see in Jaskier’s thighs. The tops of his legs brush lightly together as he steps down from the pedestal and walks over to Geralt, now a smidgeon taller from the boots, and the Witcher finds himself wishing his head was buried between those powerful legs.

“Geralt!” Jaskier greets him jovially, “I hope you weren’t searching for me because I had left you for too long. Clarice was just showing me her… exotic taste in performers costume. Where did you say these pants hailed from, dearest?”

“America,” the Lady says with a knowing smirk as she watches Geralt steadily turn pink, “They’re called ‘shorts’ over there and are worn in the circus by contortionists.”

He chokes on his next breath and Jaskier looks concerned as he coughs and between that and the strong _sexfirechamomilecoal_ scent coming off of the scantily clad bard he knows he needs to change the subject before he passes out. “Came looking because I thought you were hiding your sausage in the wrong pantry again,” he grunts.

There’s a pause and then the Lady laughs, pressing her hand daintily to her chest, “Oh my! Sir Witcher, you needn’t have worried about that. Master Jaskier was already taken care of when I offered to show him my collection. It’s rather why I offered, when I caught him in here with Roland.”

“Roland?”

Jaskier coughs slightly, his face red as he says, “The blacksmith.”

Geralt blinks as the puzzle pieces start to fall together. He knew Jaskier bedded men and women equally, he just didn’t realize the bard was willing to step away from a party as clearly exclusive as the one they’re in attendance at to sleep with someone at all. He wonders why-

“You know, I’ve only just noticed but Roland bears a strong likeness to yourself, Master Witcher.”

 _Oh_.

Jaskier and Geralt both look at the Lady so quickly their necks crack in tandem, Jaskier’s face lighting up as bright as the heart of a campfire and Geralt’s joining him not a moment later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make a prompt request [@buffskierights](%E2%80%9Cbuffskierights.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)!


	2. Arm Wrestling Champion [Established]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [@stars-in-my-damn-eyes](%E2%80%9Cstars-in-my-damn-eyes.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)  
>  _BUFFSKIER PROMPT: JASKIER CHALLENGING GERALT TO AN ARM-WRESTLING MATCH AND WINNING. THE BARD IS S T R O N K :D (im lov your writing so much ur the best)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t home most of today bc of a dentist appt and then I was at my friend’s house. The root canal I had gave me an odd amount of inspiration so here we go!

The heavy _thump_ of Lambert’s hand hitting the table is followed by uproarious cheering from Geralt’s brothers in light of his victory. Coën and Eskel laugh and jeer at Lambert, taunting the youngest Witcher as a result of being dethroned from his seat as the King of Arm Wrestling, and their mirth echoes through the empty halls of Kaer Morhen. The snow that falls gently outside the crumbling keep assures that they remain indoors and by the warm hearth, with their father sat in an armchair nearby and Jaskier plucking on the strings of his lute as he watches the proceedings with an amused grin and bright eyes.

“About damn time!” Eskel crows, thumping Geralt on the back with a gleeful bark of laughter, “Lambert’s been insufferable. Wouldn’t shut the fuck up about how he’s the strongest man alive.”

“‘Can’t nobody defeat the arm wrestling champ’!” Coën lowers his voice to mimic Lambert, who sneers and crosses his arms.

“Ha fucking ha, arseholes. It’s just because I wrestled all of you and now my arm’s fucking tired.”

Jaskier laughs from where he’s lounging at the end of the table and tilts his head to look at them, “Lambert, dear, those who lose graciously are the best in the bedroom. Are you, perhaps, finding yourself a bit lacking in that department if this is how you accept defeat?”

Lambert snarls as the others burst into laughter, “Fuck you, _bard_! I don’t see you even trying to compete!”

“I’ve no desire to,” Jaskier shrugs and Geralt grins as he adds:

“Besides, Jask knows he couldn’t beat a Witcher.”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he knows he’s made an error. Jaskier has never, ever, been one to back down from a challenge, even if attempting to prove someone wrong results in him looking like a fool. Geralt looks over and sees the tell-tale spark of rebellion in Jaskier’s blue eyes as the bard sets his lute aside and gracefully gets to his feet.

“Oh, I can’t, can’t I?” He raises an eyebrow at Geralt, “I’m inclined to disagree, my love.”

Eskel’s grin contorts the scars marring his handsome face but, for once, he seems to disregard it as he taunts, “Come put your money where your mouth is, bard. I’ll put twenty on Lambert.”

“I’ve got fifteen on Jaskier,” Coën is quick to defend the bard who gives him a sympathetic look of thanks.

“I’ll put fifty on Geralt,” Lambert boldly says, leaning back in his chair, “Loverbirds aside, he should face the new _champion_ , should he not?”

Eskel nods and sits down beside Lambert as they vacate the space across from Geralt at the table, “Seems fair to me.”

“I don’t know,” Geralt purses his lips doubtfully, “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

There’s a flash of something akin to disappointment in Jaskier’s eyes before the bard angrily sets his jaw and sits down across from Geralt, placing his elbow on the table and holding out his hand, “What, you’re not scared of being beat by a _bard_ , now, are you, Geralt?”

The animosity in Jaskier’s taunt nearly makes Geralt flinch but he shakes his head and sighs, linking hands and positioning their arms so they’re evenly spaced apart, “Just didn’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs.

Jaskier’s expression softens and his lips quirk into a gentle smile for a moment before it quickly turns teasing, “Worry about yourself, dear Witcher, you’re about to get your just desserts.”

He resists the urge to sigh again as he locks eyes with Jaskier and Lambert places his own hbd atop their locked ones and counts them down. At one, he pulls away and both bard and Witcher tense for different reasons. Jaskier, to push against Geralt’s strength, and Geralt, in preparation for the painful smack that he expected to sound immediately.

To his surprise, Jaskier’s hand doesn’t budge. In fact, while Jaskier’s cheeks are turning pink, he otherwise looks unaffected as Geralt pushes harder against him. After a moment of stunned silence, his brothers clearly having expected the same quick outcome as himself, the other Witchers start cheering for Jaskier.

“Come on, bard!”

“Show him who’s the boss!”

“Avenge my crown, Jaskier!”

Jaskier grins and fans his mouth in a mime of a yawn even though they can all hear his heart beating harder and faster and see the small drops of sweat starting to bead up on his forehead. Geralt scowls and grunts as he throws his shoulder behind his arm, pressing as hard as he can against Jaskier’s immobile hand. To his great dismay, it still doesn’t move, and he glances at the bard’s arm to make sure he’s not cheating.

Jaskier’s shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows and theres wiry muscle flexed in his explosed forearm, a thin vein pushing out the tanned and densely freckled skin. His cotton shirt is tight across his thick bicep, the woven threads straining against the strong arm. Geralt swallows and his hand slips slightly as his concentration wavers, Jaskier gaining the upper hand.

It’s over in seconds, the cool wood of the table hitting the back of his knuckles with a dull thunk only moments later and his brothers cheer. Joyful, scarred hands jostle the victorious bard as they ruffle his hair and shove him around good naturedly. Geralt feels warmer than he rightfully should and quickly gets to his feet, stalking out of the room to avoid a different sort of problem.

“Geralt?” Jaskier sounds concerned behind him and he can almost feel blue eyes on his back.

“Forget him, he’s just a sore loser,” Lambert says before the door shuts and he’s left to the cold and empty halls.

It doesn’t take long for Jaskier to find him, he wasn’t exactly trying to hide anyway since he knew the bard would follow him, and when Jaskier turns the corner to pass the alcove he’s standing in Geralt’s hand shoots out to grab the bard. Jaskier yelps softly, more alarmed than frightened, and the sound turns into a delighted moan as Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist and crushes their lips together.

“Since when are you that strong?” Geralt asks when Jaskier pulls away to breathe, looking at his bard’s wide pupils and red cheeks.

Jaskier laughs and presses another kiss to Geralt’s lips, “Since I’ve been wrangling horses as a lad for my father. You should know how wily the beasts can be, you ride one of the most ornery steeds I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

He blinks before rolling his eyes, filing the information away for later while valiantly trying, and failing, to ignore the conjured mental image of Jaskier breaking a horse. “Hm, good to know,” he murmurs and tangled his fingers in Jaskier’s hair as he brings their lips together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make a prompt request [@buffskierights](%E2%80%9Cbuffskierights.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)!


	3. Mind Reader [Not Established]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [@everyones-favorite-bard](everyones-favorite-bard.tumblr.com)  
>  _Right now the fic thing I have in my head is one where Jaskier is cursed (or somthing) to be able to read Geralt's mind (Geralt doesn't know) (at least not at first) and it is just a constant stream of words, a lot of which are about the bard to his surprise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stupendous, inspiring, wonderful, I ended up writing something so incredibly soft and way less humorous than I thought it would be

“ _Jaskier_.”

Geralt’s exasperated voice filters into his consciousness as he wakes with a groan, his cheek pressed against something cool and hard. It’s much too early to be garnering his friend’s ire already today, especially after the night he had. He doesn’t remember much of it, after the eighth ale everything goes a little fuzzy, but if the pressure in his eyes is anything to go by then Jaskier definitely started crying at some point.

It wouldn’t surprise him, he can become a bit of an emotional drunk past a certain point in the night and he’ll find the nearest willing shoulder to cry on. Usually about the Witcher looming over him, he thinks, as he peels his tired eyes open and sits up with another groan. His spine pops as it realigns from being slumped over a table and his neck aches in a way that it didn’t used to when he was a much younger man.

“We need to get going,” Geralt says quietly, and if Jaskier didn’t know better he’d say his friend was being considerate of the intense hangover he’s sporting.

“Mm, Mhm,” He nods with a yawn as he stands up and stretches, “Give me a moment to get freshened up and I’ll join you at the stables.”

As he’s walking towards the stairs he hears Geralt’s voice again, “ _I wonder why he drinks so heavily these days. Doesn’t he know it’s not healthy for him?_ ”

Jaskier’s cheeks flare with embarrassment and he pretends he didn’t hear the Witcher’s comment as he hurries upstairs. Maybe he can lay of the drinks a bit, if it worries Geralt so much.

—

When he walks into the stables with his pack over his shoulder and his lute case secured across his chest, he’s surprised by Geralt’s voice sounding relieved, “ _There he is. Glad he didn’t find trouble in the last fifteen minutes_.”

“If you know I’m here, dear Witcher, there’s no need to speak as though I’m not,” Jaskier raises his eyebrow at Geralt as he stops in front of Roach’s stall to see the Witcher tacking her up. Geralt gives him a mildly confused glance before grunting and holding his hand out for the bard’s bag. Jaskier hands it over and as the strap settles into Geralt’s palm he hears the Witcher’s voice again.

“ _Seems awfully light. Maybe he needs new clothes again. Those silks are pretty but not nearly sturdy enough for travel_.”

Jaskier blinks and then squints suspiciously. For starters, Geralt has never once cared about the state of Jaskier’s clothing, other than to complain that it’s too bright or too flimsy. And another thing, he’s quite certain he didn’t see Geralt’s mouth move when he heard his friend’s voice. Now, Jaskier is no idiot, despite what Geralt might think, but he doesn’t want to immediately jump to the conclusion of ‘I’ve been cursed to hear my best friend’s thoughts’. Maybe Witchers are just excellent at ventriloquism; it wouldn’t be the first time Geralt’s had an unusual skill.

“ _He’s being rather quiet this morning. His hangover must be worse than I thought. I should look for some mint along the path today for him to chew on_.”

Jaskier would be quite touched by how caring Geralt’s voice is, if it didn’t confirm that he’s hearing his friend’s thoughts. Fuck, how is he supposed to tell Geralt?

—

He discovers, through some trial and error, that the curse is restricted by distance. It seems that Jaskier has to be within ten feet of Geralt to become privy to the Witcher’s innermost thoughts, and the closer he is the louder Geralt’s mental voice is.

He’s gone from being mildly disturbed by the situation as a whole to being somewhat flustered by how many of Geralt’s thoughts are about him. Sure, Jaskier thinks about _Geralt_ a lot, but that’s because he’s completely arse over heels in love with the man. What’s Geralt’s excuse?

To distract himself from thinking too hard about it, Jaskier has spent the last couple hours deep in thought on how he might have acquired this curse, and how to break it. He tries to stay at least ten feet away from Geralt and Roach, or at least he did once he figured out the distance aspect, but the next thought of Geralt’s had been so _sad_ as he wondered if he did something to upset Jaskier that the bard was powerless to falling back into step with the Witcher.

“ _Maybe he’s taken ill. His face_ is _looking a bit flushed. Fuck, the last time Jaskier was ill was a disaster. Fucking pneumonia bullshit. Whoever came up with_ that _brilliant idea deserves a kick in the balls._ ”

Jaskier nearly chokes for what must be the seventh time that day as he forces himself not to laugh. Geralt is even funnier than he is normally in his head and Jaskier’s not sure how much longer he can hide his shaking shoulders.

—

He’s come up with an idea. It’s a horrible idea, really, but it’s one born of remembering his drunken crying upon the shoulder of a silver-eyed man who, in hindsight, was very clearly a mage.

He remembers the mage cooing sympathetically as he spilled his heart upon the sticky floor of the tavern, his last ale listlessly hanging from his fingers, and then promising that Jaskier will be able to figure out whether Geralt’s mixed signals are a sign of desire or not. Well, thank you, secret mage, but Jaskier is even more confused now than before as he sits across a warm fire from the man of his dreams.

Geralt is cleaning some gear that’s been overdue for a good treatment while Jaskier himself sits on a log with his arms crossed atop his lute. Both of them are silent as they listen to the crackling fire, Jaskier’s gaze deep in the flames as he thinks.

“ _He’s going to ruin his night vision like that. I suppose it’s okay, though, since I’m here_.”

Jaskier’s lips twitch downward. Geralt’s thoughts have been filled with sweet shit like that all gods-damned day and it’s driving him crazy. Plus, he has yet to even tell Geralt about the curse! And he knows the longer he waits, the worse Geralt’s reaction will be.

_“I wonder if he’s going to play tonight or just use his lute as an armrest. I rather like his songs that aren’t about me. The one he wrote about Eskel and Deirdre is especially beautiful when Jaskier sings it.”_

Jaskier groans aloud and drops his head to his lute with a dull thunk, and Geralt’s thoughts become alarmed and concerned.

“ _Is he okay? Did something happen? Maybe he’s ill after all? Or something magic? My medallion’s been humming slightly all day but I haven’t been able to figure out what could be causing it the only different thing is how quiet Jaskier has been. What if he’s a Doppler? Or a changling? Do faes even take fully grown men? Maybe they would if it’s Jaskier, they seem fond of quality bards. He isn’t moving, oh fuck, I can still hear his heartbeat though so he isn’t dead, thank the gods. I don’t know what I would do if Jaskier-“_

“Enough!” Jaskier cries as he sits up again, raking his fingers haphazardly through his hair, “I can’t take it! My gods, you think so fucking much, Geralt, I’ve barely had a thought to myself all gods-damned day!”

“ _What?”_

“What?” Geralt echoes his own thought aloud, a deep frown settling on his face.

“I should have told you, I know I should have, but I thought I could figure out what was happening and fix it and then we wouldn’t have to talk about it at all,” Jaskier rambles. He feels like he probably looks a bit wild right now but he can’t do anything about it, “But then I couldn’t think because of how many of your thoughts I was hearing all fucking day and it was so _overwhelming_! I mean, I barely get a break from my own mess of a mind, and then I had to figure out a way to not hear yours, too?”

Geralt has gone eerily silent, both internally and externally.

“But, gods, I thought I could figure it out and fix it myself since it’s my fault I got cursed by that damned mage last night when I told him how confused you make me sometimes because I lo-“ he cuts himself off as his mouth shuts with an audible click, swallowing hard and glancing at Geralt with wide eyes.

“Because you, what, Jaskier?” He asks quietly.

Jaskier shakes his head, stroking the strings his his lute with his thumb as he whispers, “I don’t want to lose you if you don’t feel the same.”

Geralt looks at him for a few moments but his mind is quiet, “You’ve been able to hear my thoughts all day?”

“Most of them,” he nods weakly, “Clear ones.”

Geralt hums with a nod before waiting until he catches Jaskier’s eye and holding his gaze, “ _I love you. And even if I didn’t, you wouldn’t have lost me for loving me_.”

Jaskier gapes at him in shock and Geralt smirks slightly before it falters, “Unless... that’s not how you-“

“No! I mean yes! I mean,” Jaskier feels his face start to burn as he scrambles for words, “I-I- you... I mean, we... that is to say— _fuck_ , this isn’t— no, yes, I do love you Geralt, I’ve loved you for years I just... I never thought...”

“That Witchers could feel emotions?” Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier feels a spike of flustered alarm.

“What? No! I’ve never— what makes you think— _Geralt_ , no, I would never think that!” He’s certain he’s as red as a tomato as he watches Geralt’s lips twitch into an amused smile and Jaskier groans, tossing some small pebbles across the fire at the Witcher, “You’re horrible, dear Witcher. You’re going to send me to an early grave.”

“Guess I’ll have to protect you,” Geralt shrugs with a grin, “Can’t have you dying on me, after all. Not right after we finally got our acts together.”

Jaskier tries to groan again but it ends in a laugh as he covers his burning face with his hands. They’ll have time to figure things out and actually talk later; but, for right now, he’s just glad he hasn’t lost his best friend while gaining a suitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make a prompt request [@buffskierights](buffskierights.tumblr.com)!


	4. Freezing Together [Not Established]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [@annabanannabeth](annabanannabeth.tumblr.com)  
>  _For the prompt thing geraskier, 14, and either 15 or 36 (if you like it!) :) god it was so hard to choose they’re all good!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 14 - Stuck together for a long period of time  
> 15 - “If you think I don’t feel anything for you, then you’re more stupid than I thought.”  
> 36 - “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

Jaskier shivers, wrapping his arms tighter around himself as he huddles deeper into his bedroll. The wind howls and echoes through the cave they’re trapped in, nearly drowning out the crackling of their meager fire that Geralt is keeping burning through sheer willpower and numerous Igni’s alone. Occasionally, flurries of snow blow down the neck of the cave to the small hole they’ve taken their refuge in and Roach will snort distastefully as the frigid air nips at her wet nose.

Geralt’s and his bedrolls are pushed together, with Jaskier’s closest to the back wall of the cave so that the Witcher can protect him from the biting winds as the last of their wood smolders into glowing embers, plunging them into darkness. They had been making their way to Kaer Morhen a little later in the season than normal, but surely they had been early enough to avoid any snowstorms, when the unexpected blizzard blew in and trapped them in this cave on the side of the mountain.

Jaskier shudders again as another gale rips through the cave, sending the glowing coals of their fire skittering across the dirt floor and nearly setting their bedrolls alight. Geralt curses and bats them away with a single gloved hand before tossing dirt on top of the embers to smother the remaining fire. The bard’s teeth have started chattering, despite the warm clothing he’s bundled in and the thick blanket of his roll.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asks quietly, sounding unfairly unaffected by the freezing temperatures.

“P-peachy, Geralt. I lo-ove freezing my balls off in a cave,” he tries to aim for a light jest, so that his dear friend knows Jaskier isn’t actually complaining, but the joviality in his voice sounds forced to even his own ears. It’s clear that he’s miserable, but he maintains a brave face, “I am s-sorry, though. W-we would have b-b-been there already if it w-weren’t for m-m-me.”

Geralt frowns down at him and pulls Jaskier closer, tucking the blanket of his own bedroll around the cocoon that the bard is in, “It’s not your fault, I agreed that we could probably make it to Kaer Morhen even with the detour to your competition.”

“If we h-hadn’t gone, though, we’d-d have beat th-the storm.”

“Jask, I know how important the annual bardic tournament is to you. It’s not your fault it got postponed this year.”

Jaskier bites his chapped lip and sniffles, his nose running from the cold, “I kn-know... but s-st-still... I mean, aft-ter what happened in T-Toussaint I...”

Geralt’s slow-beating heart stutters in his chest. They haven’t spoken at all about Jaskier’s drunken proclamation of love at the wine festival in Toussaint. Geralt swallows thickly, “Jaksier, I-”

“It d-d-doesn’t have to m-mean anything, Geralt,” Jaskier quickly says, looking everywhere in the cave but at him, “I know y-you don’t-”

Geralt interrupts him this time, “If you think I don’t feel anything for you, then you’re more stupid than I thought, bard.” 

Jaskier’s breath hitches as his eyes snap to Geralt’s, his gaze slightly searching in the dim lighting of the cave and his pupils blown wide. He blinks dazedly a few times, and Geralt gifts him a small, genuine smile before taking pity on the man and gently pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss.

He rests his forehead against Jaskier’s when he pulls away, able to feel the tremors that rack the bard’s cold body as he runs his hand firmly up and down Jaskier’s back.

“How are we going to survive the blizzard?” Jaskier whispers, dismay coloring his voice for the first time in the three days they’ve been trapped.

Geralt tightens his arms around Jaskier as he murmurs in a, he hopes, reassuring way, “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Submit a prompt [@buffskierights](buffskierights.tumblr.com)!


	5. First Date? [Not Established]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [@wilddragonflying](wilddragonflying.tumblr.com)  
>  _Sit: 32, Sentence: 23 for geraskier from the situarion/sentence prompt? 👀 (ooh bonus points if only one of them knows this was supposed to be First Date Night, and that one is Geralt)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 32 - Date night gone wrong  
> 23 - “Hey, at least the stars are beautiful tonight, right?”

He’d finally done it. It took _months_ of near-constant reassurances from Yennefer and his brothers that Jaskier, his best friend since _kindergarten_ , liked him. As in like-liked him. Like something a child would say when talking about their crush. Regardless, after months of being told that _yes_ , Jaskier does, in fact, like him, he had asked Jaskier out on a date. 

He had it all planned out, too. They were going to go to a nice restaurant on the boardwalk where Geralt would impress Jaskier by speaking in full sentences (”Be careful or you’ll scare him,” Yennefer had dryly teased). Then they’d go for a walk on the beach, since he knows the coast has a special place in Jaskier’s heart from growing up by it up north. Finally, they’ll settle down in the sand for a bottle of wine and some dessert and Geralt will ask Jaskier to play some music for them on the guitar he keeps in his car. 

However, it seems the universe has it out for him since, before the date has even begun, his cat decided his only nice pair of slacks would be her new scratching post. So he decides to wear his cleanest pair of jeans, which still usually have horse hair on them from the barn. Then, his car won’t start so he is nearly twenty minutes late meeting Jaskier at the restaurant after Jaskier’s shift at the hospital and definitely doesn’t have time to get him any flowers like Geralt wanted to.

Then, when he arrives to The Kingfisher, Jaskier looks like he’s nearly asleep as he sits upon a low wall with his jacket pulled tight around him and his hands buried in his pockets. Geralt curses under his breath, he forgot that Jaskier switched to a 4-3 schedule, 4 days of 12 hour shifts and 3 days off. He’s probably been on his feet all day and Geralt suggested tonight for their date in the hopes that Jaskier might spend the night.

It’s too late now, so Geralt parks and walks up with his hands deep in his pockets and Jaskier jerks awake when greeted. They go inside and find that there was a mixup with their reservation and their table has been given away to another party. The next available table won’t be for another two hours and Geralt scowls but Jaskier just places his hand on Geralt’s shoulder to ease him and suggests they get McDonald’s instead because he could really go for an M&M McFlurry right about now.

Thankfully, the McDonald’s drive-thru is fully functional, but the ice cream machine isn’t so Jaskier doesn’t get his McFlurry, much to his disappointment. Geralt very nearly demands they fix the machine right then and there, just so Jaskier can have _something_ other than settling for his usual order of chicken nuggets and an abhorrent amount of fries. Jaskier just shrugs with a yawn and says it’s fine, he’ll just have some wine and fall asleep in the tub when he gets home.

Which, bingo! Reminds Geralt of the picnic basket he stashed amongst the rocks on the beach so he suggests they take their food to go and they walk along the sand. He suggests Jaskier grab his guitar, only to be told that Jaskier hasn’t been keeping it in his car as often since he heard that heat is bad for the strings so he doesn’t actually have it with him right now.

The beach is much colder than he had been expecting (”It’s the middle of October, Geralt,” Jaskier points out with a laugh) so their food is cold by the time they reach the picnic basket. Which, to his dismay, has been ransacked by seagulls, the blanket yanked out of it and its contents strewn across the sand. 

“Oh, dear, what a mess,” Jaskier muses as he eats one of his cold fries, “It looks like it would have been quite the romantic picnic. Shame it got ruined.”

“No need to point it out,” Geralt snaps, the sum of all of the evening’s failures making him upset and irritable. 

Jaskier looks at him with wide eyes, “Are you alright?”

Geralt growls and kicks at the sand angrily, “Not really! I put a lot of effort into planning tonight so it would be perfect for us. For you! I know I’m not really good at all this-this romantic stuff and you’re tired a lot from saving lives and shit so I thought this would be a good compromise but for fuck’s sake, nothing’s gone right! This is a horrible first date and you’re never going to want to go out with me again.”

Jaskier blinks at him owlishly, “First date? This was a date?”

“Of course it was a date!” Geralt feels his cheeks flood with embarrassment, “I asked you out!”

“Mm, no you texted me ‘do you want to do something on Thursday night, just us?’ and I told you my shift ended at 7 tonight so you told me to meet you at The Kingfisher at 7:30.”

“Right! ‘Just us’, like a date.”

“I figured you meant like how we used to, before our group expanded to include Yen and your brothers and the Aretuza girls.”

Geralt looks miserably at his feet at he mutters, “So, do you not want to date me?”

“Now I didn’t say _that_ ,” Jaskier admonishes him and gently hooks his arm through Geralt’s, leading them to the rocks so they can sit down without getting sandy, “You’re absolutely lovely, Geralt, and I’m quite certain I’ve been in love with you since high school. I would be a fool to look a gift horse in the mouth and turn it down because tonight didn’t follow a silly plan.” 

Geralt is torn between continuing to wallow in self-pity and reeling at Jaskier’s casual declaration of love. It’s just that easy? Or at least for Jaskier it is? The crinkle of Jaskier’s McDonald’s bag fills the silence as he quietly munches on his fries, allowing Geralt to brood for a while before he lightly nudges Geralt with his elbow.

“Hey, at least the stars are beautiful tonight, right?” He’s giving Geralt the small, sweet smile that Geralt’s never seen him give anyone else as he takes Geralt’s hand in his own and laces their fingers together, “Can’t fuck that one up.”

Geralt hums, barely sparing a glance for the heavens as he looks at Jaskier beside him, their faces only inches apart. “I suppose not,” he smiles as he relaxes and leans forward, Jaskier moving closer to bring their lips together in a tender kiss under the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Submit a prompt [@buffskierights](buffskierights.tumblr.com)!


	6. Back Aching [Established]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [@ahh-fuck](ahh-fuck.tumblr.com)  
>  _For the drabble game: 12 and 20? Geraskier pls. Buffskier appearance always appreciated :D_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12 - Finally home after a hard day  
> 20 - “Don’t tell me what to do.”
> 
> CW: Implied/Referenced Non-Consensual Touching

When Jaskier finally stumbles back to the inn after a long day entertaining at the court of whatever minor nobility they’ve found themselves in the duchy of, his back is hurting and his feet are aching and he feels a little dirty from the eyes that had undressed him as he performed and the hands that roamed and groped him throughout the day. And while he’s not, necessarily, _dreading_ seeing Geralt, he’s not in the mood to socialize with anyone at all right now as he slinks up the stairs to their room with a bottle of wine that he snagged from the tavern along the way.

He unlocks the door to the room and, both fortunately and unfortunately for him, Geralt is sitting in front of the hearth and cleaning his swords. The Witcher glances up as Jaskier shuts the door behind him and removes his lute, tossing it onto the bed almost carelessly and then checking behind the bathing partition to ensure that the bath is still full.

“How’d it go?” Geralt asks and for just a moment Jaskier hates him, just a little bit. And it’s unfair of him to do that, to hate his lover for any modicum of time, especially since Jaskier had told him it would be fine if he sat this function out. Jaskier knows Geralt hates rubbing elbows with the nobility, and since they were in a town where Jaskier couldn’t possibly be recognized as a home wrecker, the bard had taken mercy on Geralt and offered to go alone.

Jaskier just grunts dismissively, his mood fouled by the antics of the aristocrats who acted as though they owned Jaskier for the day, solely because he provided them entertainment and was paid for it. Does he look like a court jester? Does he look like a whore? He knows that many people consider traveling bards to be little more than that, but still. He can still feel hands on his skin as he shucks off his clothes and uncorks the wine with his teeth, climbing into the warm bath. Geralt must have reheated the water recently in anticipation for his return.

Jaskier tips the bottle of wine back against his lips and easily drinks a third of it in one go, the grievances of the day weighing heavily upon his shoulders as he sinks lower into the water and glares at the wall opposite him. He doesn’t hear Geralt continuing to clean his swords, and a moment later the Witcher’s footsteps approach from behind him.

“You should slow down, I’m not getting you a second one when you finish that.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Jaskier grumbles and takes another long pull from the bottle.

Geralt quietly collects Jaskier’s bathing oils and then settles down on a stool at the head of the tub, wetting the bard’s hair and proceeding to clean it thoroughly. After he’s rinsed the suds from Jaskier’s russet locks and he’s smoothing his hands firmly over the bard’s broad shoulders he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Geralt nods and they lapse into an almost tense silence until it relaxes along with Jaskier as Geralt calmly, and soothingly, eases his aching muscles and keeps the bath warm for as long as Jaskier wants to stay in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Submit a prompt [@buffskierights](buffskierights.tumblr.com)!


	7. Sick With You [Not Established]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [@suddenly-a-twilight-blog](suddenly-a-twilight-blog.tumblr.com)  
>  _For the drabble prompt: Geraskier 17 and 5 :3_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17 - One is recovering from a wound/illness  
> 5 - “You’re one of the most important things in my life”
> 
> CW: Vomiting, Fever

It was five days, five long, arduous, painful days of sitting at Jaskier’s bedside. Just watching and feeling useless as the bard either thrashed from feverish dreams or lay deathly still and pale, every wheezing breath a fight for survival against the infection razing his body. Jaskier threw up anything he ate or drank except for water if dripped slowly into his mouth, his breath burning hot against Geralt’s hand that held the waterskin.

They were too far from any towns for him to move the bard either, so they were stuck in their camp in the middle of the woods as the fever burned bright beneath flushed cheeks and dry skin. Wet coughs would make Jaskier convulse until he vomited once more, and Geralt would watch the bile closely for any signs of blood. Even though his own body simmers at a higher temperature than a human’s, Geralt was holding Jaskier constantly through those five days. If he didn’t, the bard would miserably whimper and cry and whisper names that Geralt didn’t recognize, but the pain in Jaskier’s voice with each request tells Geralt he doesn’t want to know them either.

It’s on the fifth day, when Geralt was reaching the end of his rope, that Jaskier stopped breathing. He didn’t notice at first, his own fatigue slowing his reactions and observations of the world around him, but when he hears the bard’s heart falter, Geralt snaps to attention. 

“No, no, no, no, no,” Geralt mumbles as he sits up in alarm, pulling Jaskier’s limp body up with him and the leaning the bard forward a little to help clear his airways of the fluids filling his lungs, “Jaskier, come on. Breathe, you little bastard!” He firmly pounds on Jaskier’s back with one open palm until Jaskier jerks and heaves, throwing up phlegm and bile before coughing heavily. 

Geralt sighs in relief and settles back again, keeping Jaskier upright against his chest so the bard doesn’t suffocate again. After a long few minutes of silence, Geralt groans and lets his forehead rest against the crown of Jaskier’s head, his nose buried in russet hair, “Fuck, Jask. You can’t do that to me.”

“I’ll try not to,” Jaskier rasps and shivers, weakly leaning further into Geralt’s warmth.

Relief floods him as he cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of Jaskier’s face, spotting the sweat dripping down his temple and slivers of barely open, hazy blue eyes. “Thank the gods,” Geralt whispers and presses his lips to Jaskier’s hair. He inhales deeply, searching for the sickly sweet scent of illness, and is pleased to find it fading in favor of the bard’s natural oak and petrichor.

“The fuck did they do? I’m the one turning into a waterfall,” Jaskier teases tiredly and Geralt shakes his head with a huff.

“Shut the fuck up, bard.”

“Now that’s not very nice. I will admit, it’s a pleasant surprise that you’re still here, though.”

Geralt balks before frowning and tightening his arms around the bard, “You’re one of the most important things in my life, Jask. I wouldn’t leave you. Not again.”

Jaskier is silent except for his wheezing breaths for a long time until he reaches up with one limp hand and lightly rests it over Geralt’s as he says quietly, “Glad to hear that, because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Submit a prompt [@buffskierights](buffskierights.tumblr.com)!


	8. Sleeping Off Broken Bones [Established]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [@gleterins](https://gleterins.tumblr.com)  
>  _Hi! I have a buffskier prompt wherein Geralt gets injured (broken foot??? idk something that won’t let him walk) and Jaskier will carry him around trying to be helpful and Geralt would be shocked everytime it happens because he just can’t fathom the thought of Jaskier being BUFF lmao if you’ve already received this kind of prompt then pls ignore me 😬 if not then thank you in advance!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long for me to get to! I also made it so much more soft than I thought it was going to be :0
> 
> CW: Injury, Broken Bones

Broken bones are, without a doubt, Geralt’s least favorite of injuries. Sure, scooping his guts back into his body is annoying when the occasion calls for it, and maybe bleeding out to the point of the world losing color is a bit alarming, but both of those heal faster than a broken fucking bone. Oh, he could drink Swallow until the potion toxicity is what takes him away, but there is no speeding up the healing process of breaking a bone.

It had been with a sickening _snap_ that he heard, more than felt, his ankle breaking beneath the weight of the wyvern as it stepped heavily upon his leg as he stabbed it through the heart. At least he killed it first before his leg became indisposed, his ankle swelling up as he laid in the clearing of the forest and just... waited. What for? He’s not entirely sure until he hears Jaskier’s voice gently calling for him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier quietly calls again, the bard surprisingly light-footed when he wants to be and stepping through the undergrowth of the forest nearly silently, “Geralt, I don’t hear any more ferocious clashing of swords against claws so I assume you’re done fighting. Would you be a dear and answer me so I’m not stumbling around blindly in the dark, spooky forest? Geralt?”

He sighs and tilts his head back to watch the tree line as he shouts back, “I’m here, Jaskier!” He hears Jaskier’s footsteps still before shuffling and changing direction, his sunny yellow doublet announcing his presence as he hurries over to Geralt’s side.

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt, what happened? I’m not sure if you’re aware, but you’ve a wyvern atop you still,” Jaskier teases, his sharp eyes looking Geralt over for injuries and lingering on the leg trapped beneath the beast, “I’d almost say it looked cozy, if it weren’t for the erm... well, the truly astonishing amounts of blood.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and scowls, “Yeah, Jask, it’s fucking cloud 9 under here. Help me get it off and then call Roach, I think my ankle’s broken.”

Jaskier cheekily salutes him, “Yes, sir!”

“Don’t call me sir.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Geralt growls, “Are you being a smartass right now?”

“Nope! Just an asshole, ma’am,” Jaskier sticks his tongue out playfully before shucking his doublet off and folding it neatly, placing it on the ground a good distance from the blood stained mud Geralt is lying in. As he approaches, he rolls the white sleeves of his undershirt up to his elbows and adjusts the waist of his blue trousers before crouching and getting his hands under the foot of the wyvern and lifting it enough for Geralt to pull himself out.

“Woof, yeah, that looks ah... _very_ broken, my friend,” Jaskier muses as he extends a hand to the Witcher to help Geralt to his feet. His ankle has swollen enough to be tight in his boot and his foot has stiffened up from the inflammation. Geralt huffs and takes Jaskier’s hand before being _pulled_ upright, his eyes widening in surprise when he suddenly finds himself off the ground and cradled against Jaskier’s chest.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He demands, his arms automatically wrapping around Jaskier’s (shockingly broad) shoulders, “Put me down, Jaskier!”

Jaskier shakes his head as he walks over to where his doublet lays on the ground, “No can do, Witcher. The trees are too narrow for Roach to pass through and you can’t walk on that ankle. Now, do me a favor and pick up my doublet, my hands are rather full right now.” He crouches down to lower Geralt to the ground and the Witcher snatches up the yellow garment, his face feeling oddly hot.

“So, you’re going to what, carry me back to camp?” Geralt challenges as Jaskier smoothly stands up again and starts walking. He has to admit, it feels kind of... nice, to be held like this.

“That’s the plan.”

“It’s at least two miles!”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, “Woe is me, I’m stuck with a hunk of man in my arms for the next half an hour. Whatever will I do?” Geralt’s face grows hotter and he scowls, slumping down in Jaskier’s arms and crossing his own as he grumbles.

The cooling air of evening makes gooseflesh pimple on his arms and he subconsciously wiggles to press more of himself against Jaskier’s warm chest, the bard radiating comforting heat. His steps are careful as well, Jaskier’s strong arms being delicate so as not to jostle Geralt and aggravate his ankle any further. Between the gentle swaying and the warm arms and the steady thudding of Jaskier’s heart against Geralt’s shoulder, he finds his eyes growing heavy as he struggles to stay awake with the fatigue of the battle catching up to him.

When Jaskier starts quietly humming, Geralt gives in and rests his head against the bard’s shoulder, his forehead tucked against Jaskier’s neck and he can feel the faint vibrations of buzzing vocal cords. Jaskier, politely, doesn’t say anything but his scent (oak, petrichor, silk, wood oil, ink) sweetens with happiness. He’s just going to close his eyes for a moment, just a minute to rest them, Geralt thinks as his eyes slide shut and he falls asleep feeling safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send me a prompt [@buffskierights](buffskierights.tumblr.com)!


	9. Jaskier the Mountain Man [Not Established]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [@jaskicr](jaskicr.tumblr.com)  
>  _MOUNTAIN MAN JASKIER, KIM, MOUNTAIN JASKIER!!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *banjo starts playing as I walk in wielding an ax and wearing suspenders* **did someone say Mountain Man Jaskier?** *lodges my ax into the wood of my desk and cracks my knuckles as i sit down at my computer*
> 
> (Please note I was falling asleep while writing this so if there's anything weird in it that's why)

Geralt and Jaskier have been arranging to meet up again after the winter every year for the past decade. It’s easier for Geralt to come to Jaskier, though, so before the Witcher departs for Kaer Morhen, Jaskier ensures he has his winter plans lined up so that Geralt knows where to find him come spring. The thing is, Jaskier’s winter lodgings are... unusual, to say the least.

The first few years, Jaskier stayed at courts or with his family, as was expected. But then Geralt was suddenly asked to meet him in Caed Myrkvid, one of the more magical of the forests at the edge of Toussaint. Suspicious of the reasoning, Geralt had convinced Jaskier to tell him the story and he learned that the bard was tricked into competing with a Fae bard after stumbling into a faerie ring. 

He had tied with the bard and the Fae had been willing to acquiesce to the tie, but the Queen was less inclined to let Jaskier go. So she struck a deal with him, that Jaskier would spend his winters in the Fae court in order for him to have his freedom the rest of the year. Jaskier hadn’t seen any other way out of it, no loopholes that he could find, so he’d agreed to the bargain. Geralt was disapproving but sympathetic, the Fae are tricky creatures, and since then he’s been meeting Jaskier at a clearing in Caed Myrkvid in the springs.

This year, the snow thawed early, up in the Blue Mountains. And the Witchers of Kaer Morhen, eager to get back on the Path and out of the keep, had taken full advantage of the early opening of the passes. This meant Geralt would be arriving almost a month earlier than usual to meet with Jaskier, but he hopes it won’t be a problem. 

When he arrives at Caed Myrkvid, he goes to the clearing with the faerie ring that Jaskier uses to enter and exit the Fae Wilds. Geralt firmly holds Roach’s reins, checks that he has enough provisions to last him a week or two in the Wilds, and then steps into the circle. His stomach flips and the world spins until the colors settle and the trees surrounding him are much larger than they were before.

With bark the color of plums and trunks as tall as giants, the gnarled trees reach for the pale, lavender sky. Electric blue leaves reach down to the ground from the bowed limbs of the trees, creating a bizarrely colored combination between a weeping willow and an oak tree. Insects buzz through the faintly glittering flowers that carpet the forest floor and the small toadstools that make up the fairy ring glow blue in the low light of late day.

Geralt stands quietly for a few minutes, shushing Roach when she wickers nervously beside him, until he hears the gentle plucking of lute strings on the playful breeze that pulls at his hair and tousles his clothes. With a deep inhale to confirm the oak and petrichor scents of his bard, he adjusts his grip on Roach’s bridle and follows the sounds of music deeper into the forest. This isn’t his first foray into the Wilds, but repeat visits do nothing to ease how unsettled this world makes him.

He weaves through the trees, following the winding path of the teasing wind that carries the notes of Jaskier’s melodies to him, until he comes to another clearing. This one is larger than the one holding the faerie ring, and there’s a tent pitched between the trees so no widowmakers have a chance to strike its inhabitants in their sleep. There’s also a small fire that’s slowly building and eating at the pile of magenta wood that releases a heady smell instead of the natural acrid scent of smoke. And lounging against a log beside the fire is Jaskier.

The bard is dressed down, his boots set aside and his bare toes buried in the damp earth. His brown trousers are rolled half-way up his calves and his cream colored shirt is partially untucked from the waist of his pants. The collar of his shirt is unlaced, and honestly it looks like the laces that are there look somewhat like thin briars if the tiny scratches that are half-hidden amidst dark chest hair are any indication. His hair is shaggy and he has a _beard_ , which is a novelty for Geralt as he’s never seen Jaskier with more than a few days growth.

Between the plant stains on his shirt and the dirt on his legs, long and unkempt hair and the crown of ivy perched upon his head, Jaskier looks like he belongs right there in the forest. He hasn’t noticed Geralt’s presence yet and he sets his lute aside gently to stretch his arms above his head, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off strong, corded forearms. Oddly enough, Jaskier’s ears look vaguely pointed and his canines sharper than they were before.

“Jaskier,” Geralt greets amicably and the bard jumps in surprise, his head whipping around to look at the Witcher, “Good to see you.”

“I-I-I uh,” Jaskier replies eloquently before floundering about what to say and settling on the obvious, “You’re rather early this year.”

Geralt watches him closely, the bard’s eyes a much more vibrant blue than he remembers them being, “Snow in the passes melted early.” There’s a long pause before Geralt breaks it, “You eat their food while you’re here in the winters.”

Jaskier splutters for a few moments before hanging his head and scuffing the ground with his toe, “I, uh... yes.”

“I can tell.”

Jaskier clears his throat and rubs his hands together nervously, “And is that... okay?”

Geralt looks at the nervous gesture and the way Jaskier is shifting his weight quickly back and forth on the balls of his feet before shrugging, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

The relief that floods Jaskier and sags his shoulders is almost palpable in the air and Jaskier gives Geralt a large, toothy grin, “You know I’m as tall as you, when I’m in this form.”

“We’ll just have to get me taller boots, then,” Geralt groans as he doles out sixty dollars for betting and gives it to his brothers and sisters to usher them out of the clearing where they had been hiding amidst the shadows that lurk in the corner of their eyes

Jaskier has a fond expression on his face as he reaches over and pulls Geralt into a one-armed hug with a smile, “I guess so.”

He ends up with high heels. At least his calves look half a good as he rushes into town because he doesn’t have an extra set of clothing and the fae all wolf whistle and tease Geralt and Jaskier until the end of his winter contract. Upon when, he’ll shave his face and cut his hair and become fully human again, just for Geralt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send me a prompt [@buffskierights](buffskierights.tumblr.com)!


	10. Jungle Gym [Not Established]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by this conversation in the Witcher Jaskier server:  
> [starsinmydamneyes](stars-in-my-damn-eyes.tumblr.com): 19-year-old Jaskier trying to restrain a grown witcher swinging his ridiculously expensive and fragile lute as a weapon is very funny to me  
> [theaceace](theaceace.tumblr.com): Bold of you to assume Geralt isn't restraining Jaskier with one hand and swinging the lute with the other  
> [starsinmydamneyes](stars-in-my-damn-eyes.tumblr.com): Jaskier is climbing all over him like a baby kitten trying to _get at that fucking lute before he swings it-_  
>  Myself: Jaskier: >:3 | Geralt: :o | Jaskier: >:0  
> [theaceace](theaceace.tumblr.com): Basically

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are intelligent people in the Witcher Jaskier server with at least three brain cells among us

Geralt’s only been traveling with Jaskier for a year, but in that year he’s learned a lot about the aspiring bard. He’s learned that Jaskier complains a lot, but doesn’t mean it most of the time, he just likes to hear himself talk. He’s learned that Jaskier prefers ale to wine, but he drinks wine instead to seem sophisticated so he isn’t treated like a child. He’s learned that Jaskier if sleeps on his stomach he’s silent but if he sleeps on his back he snores loud enough to wake the dead.

And he’s learned that Jaskier is a feral little shit who fucking loves bar fights.

Geralt suspects, not that he’s any sort of expert on people, that Jaskier has a lot of pent up rage. Considering the bard’s usual sunny disposition, it would make sense that any actual irritation and anger gets bottled up until it’s unleashed on the next unwitting recipient who decides to try and fight Jaskier.

He would fight dirty too. Clawing and scratching and kicking with his pointy toed boots. Jaskier always complains about the blood that gets on his clothes afterwards, be it his own or his opponent’s, but in the moment there’s a terrifying smile on the teen’s face. Geralt usually lets Jaskier get it out of his system, just sitting back to watch, but tonight the man is twice Jaskier’s size and has a knife.

Which promptly ends up sheathed in Jaskier’s side.

Geralt curses since he’s left his swords up in their room and doesn’t have anything to protect the bard with. So he jumps up and grabs the first thing he can get his hands on as he shoves Jaskier back and raises his arm to swing the lute in his grasp down on the stabber’s head.

“No, Geralt! Not the lute!” Then Jaskier, who still _has a knife in his gut_ , jumps on Geralt’s back and wraps his hand around the Witcher’s wrist. Jaskier’s not big enough to knock Geralt down, but suddenly having a gangly, teenaged bardling crawling and _bleeding_ all over you is a little discombobulating and he ends up swinging the instrument anyway in his attempt to stay his balance.

It’s with a strangled twanging of strings that the lute breaks against the shoulder of the man whose knife now lives in Jaskier and the bardling shouts in rage, angrily digging his heel into Geralt’s hip as he lunges for the lute. Geralt curses again and grabs Jaskier around the waist, his hands now full of spitting bard and a lute in two pieces.

Jaskier doesn’t forgive him for two entire weeks until they find a luthier who can repair the sturdy elven instrument, since his flailing just snapped the neck and didn’t shatter the body.

(Ten years later, when they’re ambushed by bandits and his swords are, again, too far away to grab, Geralt goes for the lute only to hear an enraged scream and have a heavy weight hit him as Jaskier tackles him to the ground. Maybe he wasn’t as forgiven as he thought.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send me a prompt [@buffskierights](buffskierights.tumblr.com)!


	11. Toss a Bigot Away From Your Witcher [Established]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by: [@gods-no-longer-tread-here](gods-no-longer-tread-here.tumblr.com)  
>  _hey I have a prompt if that's okay: Geralt sees Jaskier throw a man into a pig trough for insulting them and it's immediate "Heart Eyes, motherfucker". Later he asks how the hell Jaskier did it and Jaskier rolls his eyes and says "Like this," and just fucking picks Geralt up and throws him on the bed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is excellent and I apologize for how long it took me to fill this prompt
> 
> CW: Implied nsfw towards the end

He’s sweating underneath all of this armor. Why on earth did he decide that _black_ was his color? He could have chosen red, like Eskel, or even brown, like Lambert, but nooo. He’s Geralt of Rivia and he has to wear _black_ clothes and _black_ armor. And with the summer sun beating down on his head as he stands outside the alderman’s house with a bushel of rotting drowner heads in hand and Jaskier halfheartedly twanging the strings of his lute as he sweats beside him, his choice in armor color is his biggest problem.

Or, at least it _was,_ until a man that Geralt smells before he sees grabs his shoulder aggressively. He reeks of fetid blood and decaying meat and when Geralt turns around, he comes face to face with a large man wearing a soiled, leather apron. His cheeks are ruddy from the same blasted heat affecting all of them and his eyes are small and watery, his thinning hair plastered to his shiny head from perspiration. 

“Can I help you?” Geralt sighs and Jaskier looks up in intrigue from his composition book, his fingers stained with ink as the oils of his hand dampen the pages.

“Yeah,” the man, clearly the town’s butcher, sneers. And he spits at Geralt’s feet as he takes a step back, crossing his meaty arms, “You can take yer witcher whore, mutant, and get the fuck out of town.”

“That’s original,” Jaskier mutters and looks back down.

Geralt looks at the butcher for a few moments before pointedly lifting the bushel of drowner heads, their hair gripped in his hand, “Waiting for my coin. Then I’ll go to the inn. We’ve a room there.”

“First we’ve got to deal with this accursed heat, and then a Witcher walks into town? It’s a sign from the gods, I tell you,” the butcher spits again, chewing tobacco coloring the saliva a disgusting shade of brown, “So I’ll be telling ya again, _freak_ , get the hell out and take your gods-damned heat with ya.”

Geralt narrows his eyes and is formulating a response when Jaskier makes an irritated noise and stands up, setting his lute aside gently and walking over to grab the man by the collar of his shirt, “If it’s the fucking heat you’ve got a problem with,” he stands several inches taller than the butcher and hauls him up, grabbing the waist of his pants with the other hand, “Then might I suggest you _cool off_?” 

Geralt watches in surprise as Jaskier proceeds to lift the butcher off of the ground and heave him into a nearby water trough, Roach whickering in what could be amusement as the water sloshes over the metal sides and the man splutters angrily. The butcher scowls and opens his mouth when the door to the alderman’s house swings open.

“What’s all this fucking racket out here?” An imposing woman with gray hair tied up in a severe bun glares at all of them before her eyes land on the butcher in the trough, “Josiah, are you causing trouble again? Get the fuck back to your shop before I call your wife!”

Jaskier wipes his hands on his shirt, his doublet neatly packed away in Roach’s bags, and watches with a raised brow as the butcher scrambles to get out of the water and nearly sprints back down the street to the butchery, “Someone decided to marry that?”

“Aye,” the alderman sighs and eyes the drowner heads, “I suppose you’ll be wanting payment for those? Well, come in then, Witcher.”

Jaskier waits a moment to follow Geralt inside, but when the Witcher doesn’t move, he rolls his eyes and goes ahead. Geralt watches him with saucers for eyes, wondering how long Jaskier’s been able to do _that,_ and also maybe letting his thoughts drift in a less than comely direction.

Later that night, when they’ve returned to their room and Jaskier has Geralt pressed up against the door as he bites and licks and ravishes the Witcher’s sensitive neck in an attempt to leave a mark that lasts longer than a few hours due to Witcher healing, it comes to mind again.

“How...” Geralt gasps, his hands on Jaskier’s hips, “How the hell did you do that?”

“Mm, do what?” Jaskier murmurs without pulling away from his task.

Geralt’s face feels hot and the air is thick with their arousal, the heady scent of sex filling his nose as he takes a shuddering breath, “Throw that man, how did you do that?”

The bard pulls back then to straighten up and Geralt’s hit suddenly with the realization that Jaskier is only maybe an inch or two shorter than himself, the bard’s broad shoulders filling out his shirt in a way that’s hidden by his tailored, slimming silks. Geralt blushes darker from being the subject of Jaskier’s intense, blue gaze until the bard grins and suddenly wraps one arm around Geralt’s torso, the other scooping up his legs, “Like this!”

Geralt makes a noise of surprise as he’s suddenly lifted off the ground and tossed onto the bed, the mattress bouncing him up as Jaskier crawls onto it and straddle’s Geralt’s waist. The Witcher laughs with an answering grin and pulls Jaskier down for another searing kiss. He could get used to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send me a prompt [@buffskierights](buffskierights.tumblr.com)!


	12. Between a Bard and a Hard Place [Not Established]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt:  
>  _We’ve heard of buff!jaskier who can carry Geralt with ease, but I don’t see any of us talking about buff!jaskier, holding Geralt up against a wall with no problem, and screwing the daylights out of him, much to both their delights_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With permission, I am answering this prompt as a sequel to [@jaskicr‘s](jaskicr.tumblr.com) clothes swap ficlet which you can read [HERE](https://buffskierights.tumblr.com/post/624952988920954880/for-buffskier-for-some-reason-jaskier-has-to-wear). (also it ended up being a tree instead of a wall). She also has a sequel written with everything but the porn that you can read [HERE](https://jaskicr.tumblr.com/post/625091289279578112/sequel-to-the-clothes-swap-featuring-buffskier-i).
> 
> CW: NSFW

The time after Jaskier ruthlessly and efficiently cut down the nekkers is a blur to Geralt. He vaguely remembers his bard (a bard in wolf’s clothing, his mind supplies as a poor yet apt metaphor) complaining about gathering proof of kill as he picked up one of the beheaded skulls of a nekker. He also kind of remembers the walk back, but his vision had been narrowed in on the long, muscular legs that fill out _his_ leather trousers as Jaskier walked ahead of him. Truly, had there been anything else in the forest, they both would have been killed because of Geralt’s lack of attention. 

Then they’re suddenly back on the road and making camp, maybe an hour outside of town as the inn refused to let Jaskier stay, and Jaskier is prattling on about... who fucking knows, what. Geralt isn’t exactly listening as he goes through the habitual motions of lighting the fire Jaskier created with a carefully timed Igni, all while taking discreet glances at the bard who has yet to divest himself of Geralt’s armor.

Finally, he works up the courage to ask in a slightly choked voice, “How come you haven’t taken it off yet?”

Jaskier looks over and raises and eyebrow, “The armor?” Geralt nods. Jaskier’s voice pitches a bit lower as his eyes hungrily sweep over Geralt, “I thought maybe you’d want to take it off me.” 

Geralt’s mouth dries up faster than a puddle in the Korath Desert and he swallows reflexively, “I...” he squeaks and clears his throat, his face burning. Jaskier’s eyes are dark with desire, his pupils blown wide as he slowly approaches as though Geralt is a skittish animal, and the Witcher has never before felt like _prey_ so much as he does now.

“Tell me if I’m misunderstanding,” Jaskier murmurs, his eyes dropping to Geralt’s lips and one leather gloved hand sliding over his shoulder to cup the back of his neck. He’ll never admit it later, but Geralt’s eyes flutter shut in anticipation as Jaskier leans in and they’re kissing. The bard’s lips are slightly chapped from the dry air and they both smell like blood and sweat and nekkers, but with the leather beneath Geralt’s hands as he wraps his arms around Jaskier and the spicy scent of Jaskier’s arousal in his nose, it’s almost torture to only be kissing.

But at the same time, Jaskier has had decades of experience kissing, and it shows. He controls the way their lips move together, his silver tongue teasing and licking into Geralt’s mouth and alighting the Witcher’s body with heat that pools deep in his stomach. Jaskier’s teeth nip at Geralt’s lower lip and he groans in response, pulling Jaskier closer and fumbling with the clasps and buckles of his armor. It’s much harder to remove it from someone else’s body, and a small part of him appreciates Jaskier for doing it so frequently when he’s injured.

That small part is drowned out, however, by the broad expanse of Jaskier’s chest when he removes Geralt’s black shirt, tossing it so it lands atop the pile of leather armor nearby. He’s seen part of Jaskier’s chest before, through unlaced collars and scandalously open doublets, but those teasing glimpses could never have prepared Geralt for the way dark hair curls over defined pectorals and dances down in a tantalizing trail to dip below the belt of his trousers. 

_Geralt’s_ trousers, he remembers as he looks down at the black leather, his hands running down Jaskier’s sides and along strong obliques and the faint ridges of ribs. He swallows thickly at the bulge pushing at the front of the leather pants, the tantalizing outline of Jaskier’s cock so near to his own making his head spin.

“Like what you see?” Jaskier smirks, his lips nipping at the underside of Geralt’s jaw. He makes a strangled sound of approval, letting his head fall back and closing his eyes as he grips Jaskier’s hips and his own twitch forward, pulling a low groan from the bard as he grinds their cocks together through their trousers. “Fuck, okay,” Jaskier gasps and presses his hands lightly against Geralt’s shoulders.

Geralt is vaguely aware of moving backwards until his back is pressed up against a tree, the bark rough and grounding through Jaskier’s thin shirt. Jaskier’s fingers are everywhere, his hands carving paths of fire across Geralt’s skin as they move with purpose to the laces at the back of his trousers. He makes quick work of them and their lips are together again as Jaskier pushes the pants down to Geralt’s mid-thigh, his hot hand wrapping around Geralt’s hard cock and languidly stroking it a few times. The dry friction is almost too much, too soon, but then Jaskier strokes his thumb over the leaking head of Geralt’s cock and the Witcher moans embarrassingly loud.

Jaskier grins and swallows the sound as his tongue presses into Geralt’s mouth, then he pulls away and Geralt whines at the loss, forcing his eyes open to see what’s happened. He makes a punched out sound as he exhales shakily, looking down at Jaskier who has dropped to his knees before him. “Jaskier... Jask, what-” he doesn’t get to finish his question as he gasps, his prick enveloped by wet heat with Jaskier’s lips wrapped around it. 

Instinctively, his hand goes to Jaskier’s head, his fingers tangling into russet locks and tugging. Jaskier groans and sucks in a breath through his nose before diving forward, swallowing down Geralt’s cock and gagging a little the first time before trying again. He can feel the muscles in Jaskier’s throat working around him as the bard takes him fully in his mouth, his nose pressed to the white curls at the base of Geralt’s prick. The scent of salt pierces the air as tears decorate Jaskier’s dark lashes and Geralt curses, watching as Jaskier starts to bob and dip his head. 

He doesn’t take Geralt into his throat every time, instead choosing to hollow his cheeks as he sucks or lightly graze his teeth along the underside of Geralt’s cock, but each time he _does_ it manages to surprise the Witcher yet again, pulling gasps and moans from deep in his chest. He doesn’t notice as the budding heat builds into an inferno, tightening his muscles and the his grip on Jaskier’s hair undoubtedly becomes punishing, but the bard doesn’t say a word and it’s with a shout that Geralt comes, his eyes rolling back and his legs trembling as they struggle to keep him upright.

Jaskier doesn’t pull off until his throbbing cock has run dry, his prick popping free of Jaskier’s red lips with an obscene sound. The bard’s chin is soaked with saliva that he wipes off on the back of his hand, grinning up at Geralt with a smug expression, “I’ve been wanting to do that for _years_ , Geralt. You’re a very difficult man to seduce.”

Years? They could have been doing this for _years_? Geralt wants to hit himself over the head with a frying pan for his own stupidity and he hauls Jaskier to his feet to crush their lips together again. Jaskier makes a surprised sound that melts into a moan as Geralt paws at the front of his trousers, pulling the buttons free of their holes and shoving the leather pants out of the way to free Jaskier’s cock. It’s not much longer than the average human’s, but its deliciously thick and Geralt sighs at the sight of it, making Jaskier laugh and duck his head to press his lips to Geralt’s neck.

“How are you still hard?” Jaskier asks with wonder, not moving away as he diligently works a mark into Geralt’s skin with his teeth. “Is this that non-existent Witcher refractory period you told me about?”

He grunts in confirmation and opens his mouth dutifully as Jaskier presses two fingers to his lips, licking and sucking and drooling until the long digits are slick with spit and the bard’s hand slips between his legs, nudging Geralt’s knee with his own to make him widen his stance. One wet finger circles his hole, teasing the puckered flesh until Geralt relaxes enough for Jaskier to breach his hole with the tip of his finger. He groans at the intrusion and lets his head fall back against the tree he’s still pressed up against as Jaskier’s finger slowly moves deeper, in and out, until he’s relaxed enough for the bard to work a second finger in.

He scissors his fingers, delicately stretching Geralt as Geralt pants and moans and begs for him to get on with it. “Jaskier, _fuck_ , Jask, please. I’m ready just get a fucking move on, for fuck’s sake.”

“You’re impatient,” Jaskier teases, but removes his fingers all the same, and Geralt starts to straighten up to turn around when Jaskier’s hands slide down to the backs of his thighs, just below the curve of his ass, and he’s suddenly _lifted_ off of the ground. Geralt yelps in surprise and wraps his legs around Jaskier’s waist, throwing his arms around the bard’s broad shoulders.

“What the fuck, Jaskier?”

“You can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to be taken like this,” Jaskier grins rakishly and Geralt’s stomach swoops as the truth of his words settles over him. While he can’t say he ever _imagined_ it, saying he doesn’t want it would be a blatant lie from the way his cock is twitching and his blood thunders through his veins.

In lieu of replying, he pulls Jaskier’s lips to his again, kissing him deeply and passionately. Jaskier moans appreciately and Geralt, oddly enough, feels safe crushed between the strong bard and the sturdy tree at his back. He can feel the head of Jaskier’s prick at his entrance before he pushes in carefully. There’s a slight burning stretch that quickly gives way to shudders of pleasure as Geralt tosses his head back with a loud groan. It’s surprising to him how quiet Jaskier is compared to himself, one would think that endless chatter of the bard would continue in his trysts, but it seems that’s not the case.

“Fuck,” Jaskier hisses, letting his forehead drop to Geralt’s shoulder as he works his way deeper with little twitches of his hips. It’s the sweetest kind of torture and Geralt’s certain he’s leaving finger shaped bruises on Jaskier’s shoulders but he can’t bring himself to care or loosen his grip. When Jaskier is fully seated, he lets out a little sigh and waits patiently for Geralt to adjust to his size. 

“Fuck, Jask, fuck _move_ ,” Geralt growls and digs his heels into the backs of Jaskier’s thighs and the bard gives a light laugh that breaks off into a choked sound as Geralt deliberately tightens around him, “I said _move_.”

“Right, yes,” Jaskier gasps with a nod, “That’s on the dossier.”

“Then fucking _fuck me_ already.”

Jaskier groans, “gods, Geralt,” but does as he’s told, pulling out slowly at first and Geralt very nearly snipes at him before his hips snap forward and all thoughts of complaint vanish into a moan. Jaskier repeats the motion a few times until he settles into a steady, yet punishing rhythm. Geralt’s legs shake and Jaskier’s arms are trembling slightly from the exertion of holding the Witcher aloft, yet he doesn’t relinquish his grip on Geralt’s thighs. He, instead, shifts Geralt so that his back slides down the tree, just a little, and angles the Witcher’s hips upwards. 

Lightning zips through his body as Jaskier’s cock hits his prostate and Geralt shouts in surprised ecstasy, every muscle clenching and spasming as he comes untouched, painting Jaskier’s stomach with white ropes. Jaskier makes a strangled sound as he tightens around the bard and only a few more messy thrusts are made before Jaskier buries himself deep within Geralt and cries out, filling the Witcher with his hot seed.

They stay there for a few moments, just catching their breath and basking in the afterglow of a good fuck, before Jaskier pulls out and slowly lowers Geralt’s legs to the ground. Geralt tests the strength of them before standing up, ignoring the trickle that runs down his thighs and pulling Jaskier in for one more kiss.

Jaskier sighs with a smile, delicately cupping Geralt’s cheeks in his hands, as though he’s something to be treasured. Before Geralt can get flustered though, Jaskier pulls back and positively beams at him with a laugh, “If I’d known that would be the result of wearing your armor, dear Witcher, I’d have suggested swapping clothes ages ago.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send a prompt [@buffskierights](buffskierights.tumblr.com)!

**Author's Note:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


End file.
